


The Soft Animal of Your Body

by Nahara



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Alternate Canon, Angst, Bullying, Character Study, Dysfunctional Family, Family Feels, First Time, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, M/M, Swearing, Underage Sex, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 06:06:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nahara/pseuds/Nahara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek and Laura travel back to Beacon Hills for a wedding - and maybe to face some demons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Soft Animal of Your Body

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is basically angst, character introspection, angst, PORN, angst, character introspection - in that order. No great plot here, no sir.

He’d never planned on going back. Not ever. Beacon Hills was a past he’d tried to bury so deep, it should have been halfway to Siberia by now. But Derek’s life isn’t made for easy. It’s all about the sharp edges and wounds that reopen again and again. 

Laura had literally hauled his ass into the car and handcuffed him to the door handle. Firstly, Derek’s not sure where his big sister got the handcuffs - though he thinks it has something to do with that shit-head boyfriend of hers - or why she thinks the cheap metal will keep him contained. It’s probably just physiological. Whatever. Derek only tries to make a break for it once. (After he’d tried, Laura had swerved off the deserted road, unbuckled her belt and levered herself over the console to straddle him. He’d almost blacked out before she let him breathe again, her claws retracting and smeared with blood. Derek knew when he was beat. He’d bared his neck to her. Laura never said a word but howled so loud the car shook and Derek’s ears rang long after she’d started driving again. Good thing they were in the fucking desert, not a soul around for miles to wonder why they could hear the rage of a wolf on the wind.)

Laura unlocks the handcuffs when they reach a rest stop, lets him out to take a piss and buy some diet soda. The guy behind the counter smells of fear and arousal as he looks Laura up and down. 

Derek knows what Laura looks like. Huge tits, small waist, beautiful dark wavy hair and intense eyes. In direct contrast to her ripped jeans, shapeless beanie and the too-big t-shirt. None of it hides her sensuous curves or beautiful, dangerous face. She could swear like a trooper, nothing remotely beautiful about it, which is probably why she did it so often. She was a wizard at finding and nurturing the ugliest parts of herself. Their mom nearly tanned her hide when she found Laura had taken up the habit of spitting - great big wads of it, hacked out with speed, distance and precision. It was the most impressive thing an eight year-old Derek had ever seen. She was also fiercely loyal. She’d broken a guy’s arms once - both of them - for throwing a homophobic slur at Derek. It had taken all of Derek’s superhuman strength to pull her off the asshole. 

The attendant’s pupils are dilated and Derek wants to reach over the counter punch the fucker, but knows Laura wouldn’t like it. She can take care of herself. Physically anyway. Emotionally, that girl has more issues than even Derek. And that’s saying something. He’d once tried to talk to her about her poor choice in boyfriends but she’d only stormed out of their apartment and hadn’t returned for two weeks. When Laura came back she didn’t have bruises or fractured ribs or a black eye, werewolf healing wiping away all physical signs of abuse, but Derek could read in the tilt of her head and the deep poison-red of her Alpha-turned eyes that she was as far from alright as it was possible to be. He didn’t mention her boyfriends again. Figured it was safer if he could keep his mouth shut and his eyes open.

The gas station guy doesn’t do anything more than stammer and sweat. He’s no real threat and Derek dismisses him. They have another day, day and a half, of driving before they reach Beacon Hills. He has bigger fish to fry.

The wedding invitation is in the glove compartment. Derek reads it again while Laura fiddles with the radio. She leaves it on a blue-grass station, heavy on the resonator guitar and bass. The electric shimmy of the music sounds like it was born in a swamp somewhere, gothic and heavy. It suits his mood just fine.

_You are cordially invited to celebrate_  
 _the wedding of_  
 ** _Melissa Jane McCall_**  
 _and_  
 ** _Peter Frederick Hale_**  
 _on Tuesday afternoon_  
 _June the 2nd_  
 _at Four-o’clock_  
 _3990 Beacon Shallows Drive_  
 _Beacon Hills_

Derek think it’s fucking hilarious that his Uncle Peter is the one out of the three of them who seems to have pulled his shit together. Peter burned pretty badly in the fire, he’s missing several fingers and one side of his face is melted into a permanent scowl. Neither Laura nor Derek know why Peter hasn’t healed fully like he was supposed to. Another mystery of the universe.

Melissa is a nurse. Peter told them on the phone a few months ago, after he proposed to her and they set a date. She’s been married before, just like Peter. Her ex-husband is a douchebag of the highest order, apparently, and rarely comes to see his kid. 

And that’s another thing. Melissa has a teenage son, Scott. Peter attached photos in an email once but Derek didn’t want to look at them. Was happy not to look at all, until Laura printed them off and slapped them onto the fridge door with magnets. ‘Hello from the Everglades’ holds up a picture of Melissa, curly hair and a nice smile. She looks like the kind of nurse you’d want when you’re sick in a hospital, the kind that’ll sneak you your favourite flavoured Jello. ‘Lucky in Vegas’ is just under the chin of Scott McCall, floppy hair, uneven jaw line and dopey smile as he glances down and away from the lense. They both look so normal that Derek never knows whether he wants to tear them down from the fridge or be glad that there’s some normality in the family again. 

For what it’s worth, he’s not taken down the photos to date. But maybe he’s just afraid of Laura kicking his ass.

 

They stay in a motel without curtains. Laura takes towels from the bathroom and drapes them over the empty curtain rod to give them some privacy from the rush of the highway. They eat greasy hamburgers for dinner, cooked rare, and watch an old episode of NCIS. Derek drifts in and out of sleep, startling at the sound of distant closing doors and close skittering insects.

The next day is long and Derek can’t eat, his stomach won’t let him. It’s not entirely happy about the burger from the night before and won’t settle. By the time they reach a sign that says ‘Beacon Hills, Exit 34, Next Right’, Derek’s breathing turns shallow and he starts seeing black spots in his vision.

Turns out Laura has to swerve off the road again, but this time, when his sight clears and his breathing is normal, his sister is holding him down and whispering calm nonsense into his ears. _You’re safe, I love you, calm down. Safe. Love._

 

Peter actually hugs him when they drive into the McCall/Hale driveway and step out of the car. He was waiting for them, could probably hear their twin heartbeats several streets away. He makes some comment about whether Laura remembered to bring her dress for the wedding, no ripped jeans allowed. She scowls and points to her suitcase. Derek has never seen her in a dress, not sure he’s ever even seen her knees. No shorts, no skirts, dresses or swimming suits.

What surprises Derek more is that Melissa McCall comes out of the house, a damp dish towel slung across a shoulder, and immediately hugs him like he's family. He doesn’t hug back because... because he can smell something on her. It’s strange and familiar all at once. Laura must smell it at the same time because she rentches Derek from Melissa’s hold.

“What the fuck is going on, Peter?” Laura hisses. “She smells of wolf - and I don’t mean you.”

Melissa has gone still and her heartbeat has sped up. She’s anxious, but not scared. Not yet.

Peter bares his elongated teeth, stepping in front of his wife-to-be.

“Chill, niece,” Peter says in a deceptively calm voice. It’s filled with the kind of ice that’s always scared Derek more than he’d like to admit. “Melissa’s son, Scott, was bitten a year ago. Some pack-less Alpha passing through town. I’ve been training him. He’s Pack.”

“I’ll tell you when he’s Pack,” Laura grits out, angry as all Hell. But she lets Derek go, the bruises from her fingers already fading.

 

Scott McCall is kind of an idiot and Derek finds it hard to believe he’d ever be a threat. He’s just so innocent and dopy. Scott is obviously not completely enthused by the idea of Peter being his Pack superior, but that’s everything to do with being a teenager and not so much with the werewolf side. Having to share his mom for the first time in a while and learn the dynamics of a Pack, it’s bound to get the hormones jumping around. He’s sulky around Derek but seems to know immediately that Laura shouldn’t be fucked with.

“I’ve never seen red-eyes before,” he says at dinner. “It looks weird. What does it mean?”

Melissa scolds him but Laura doesn’t care and says so.

“It means I’m an Alpha.”

Scott swallows hard, heartbeat erratic. “Like the wolf that bit me?”

“No,” Laura says shortly, but not unkindly. “I would never have done what that wolf did to you. The bite is a gift and a curse; you don’t give it to a human without asking. Not ever.”

“Could I turn someone if I wanted?”

Derek snorts and Scott blushes, glowering. Laura digs an elbow into Derek’s ribs hard enough to bruise them. He grunts but doesn’t say anything.

“No, only an Alpha can turn someone. Why, you got someone in mind, puppy?”

Scott doesn’t like the endearment, probably thinks he’s being mocked, but doesn’t argue the point. He shrugs.

“Nope.”

A lie. 

Laura’s eyes bleed red and Scott whines. “Jeez, sorry. I was just thinking it’d be cool if my best friend Stiles was like me too. Not that I think he’d want it, actually.”

"What kind of name is Stiles?" Derek mutters.

“Does this kid know about what you are?” Laura asks Scott but looks directly at Peter. The latter narrows his eyes.

“Uh, yeah, it’s kind of Stiles’ fault I’m... like _this_ now. He dragging me into the woods the night I was bitten. But it’s cool. He’s also the one who figured out what I was. Kept me safe the first few full moons, before mom found out and Peter started to help.”

Laura says she’s going to have to meet this Stiles person, and Scott perks up, like she said she wanted to see his baseball card collection or something. Apparently Stiles will be at the wedding, him and his dad, who happens to be the town Sheriff.

Huh. John Stilinski. It’s been awhile since Derek’s heard that name. A good man. Stiles must be that hyperactive child who used to play ninjas in the police station, sneaking around and karate chopping every swivel chair, filing cabinet and desk he could get his hands on. Derek doesn’t really remember a face, just the smell of grass stains and talcum powder. Scent memories are always the longest lasting.

 

That night Derek and Laura get their own rooms, but at three in the morning Derek wakes to find Laura slipping in beside him. He turns to curl around her, keeping her safe in his arms and falling asleep to the steady _thump-thump_ of her familiar heartbeat.

 

Laura wears the dress. It’s yellow and shows her knees. Derek almost smiles at the sight but knows she’d knock a few of his teeth out if she saw. (And growing teeth back is a bitch, werewolves are not sharks, they don’t have a spare hundred for such occasions.) She’s a bridesmaid for Melissa, holding a bouquet of daisies and looks lovely; soft and quiet and normal. Laura doesn’t hide her own teasing grin when she sees him, however. It’s probably the sight of Derek in a vest. He knows he fits the suit well. She doesn’t say anything though, just slaps him on the ass before they head down the aisle together, partners in the procession.

The ceremony is quick, simple. Melissa smiles a lot and even Peter looks genuinely happy when he recites the vows. The reception is back at the house in the backyard which is decked out with flowers and white bunting. Derek feels a bit like he’s entered the Twilight Zone, most of his life is quiet and covered in a film of grit these days. This wedding is the total opposite - it’s clean and bright. It feels really strange to be standing in the middle of all this, like a blemish on a newly starched sheet. 

Derek sees the Sheriff, looking older than he remembers, sitting two tables to his right. That is the man who’d held Derek and Laura after their world had ended, the man who’d wrapped them in his arms and held on through tears and howling, so tight that there was a bruise pressed into Derek’s chest from where the Sheriff’s badge had dug into his skin.

He doesn’t like the memories being brought to the surface, doesn’t want the sheriff to come over and look at him the same way he had back then. Not pity; compassion.

Sometimes kindness hurts the most.

Derek leaves his half-eaten chicken and slips into the cool, dark house. He hears a soft heartbeat coming from the family room, the soft scrape of paper on paper. Someone is reading in there, probably hiding. Derek’s intrigued, has the sudden compulsion to find this kindred spirit. Not to talk or anything, just to see who it is and then find his own place to hide from the oppressive sound of happiness.

There’s a teenage boy sitting on the window seat in the family room, a cushion stuffed behind his back and he’s slipped off what must be his Church-shoes, socked feet up on the sill. He’s wearing novelty socks with little... Derek squints and cocks his head, not sure he’s seen right. But yeah, they _are_ little wolves on this kid’s socks.

Derek must make a sound, a huff too soft to be a laugh, too loud to be breathing, because the kid flinches and turns, stumbles to his feet. He uses a lot of limbs to do it, ungainly like he’s had a recent growth spurt. The book slips from his hands and smacks the hardwood floor with a hollow thump. It’s a tattered pulp-paperback called _The Howling_. 

His eyes are huge and amber with long lashes and his full lips are parted in shock. Around one of those surprised eyes, the one that had been turned away from Derek initially, is a deep, ugly bruise. The side of his face is a sickly yellow-purple. Now that he knows what to look for, Derek can smell the scabbed-over skin on the kid’s knuckles. Derek’s nostrils flare at the minute smell of congealed blood and broken blood vessels under warm skin. This kid had clearly been on the losing end of some schoolyard fight. Derek can hear an increased heartbeat, short, sharp breathing and smell the bitter tang of fear overlaying the smell of the injury.

“Hey, uh, you’re Derek right?” the kid says, voice wavering a little.

“You’re Stiles.”

“Bingo.” He’s breathing erratically.

“The Sheriff’s kid.” Derek can smell the faint, familiar sweetness of talcum powder. The giggling of a little boy echos down from the past and Derek stops breathing for a second at the unexpected vividness of the memory.

“Right again. Gonna continue with Stating the Obvious for six hundred there, bud?”

“What happened to your face?” Derek barks, annoyed. 

In answer, Stiles scrunches his face and rolls his eyes so hard they’re likely to fall out of his head if he’s not careful. This must be a common expression because he does it without thinking before suddenly swearing and slipping a hand unconsciously up to his cheek as if to stop the pain.

“I play lacrosse. Contact sport, ya know?” Every word reeks of lies. Derek glares at him, tries not to take it personal, but steps further into the room in way Laura calls ‘ _stalking the prey_ ’. Stiles flops backwards onto the window seat, a palm thrust out at Derek in a gesture to halt.

“God,” he says, a little breathless. “Fine, I got beat up at school. That what you want to know, Mr Eyebrows? Huh?” Defensive and embarrassed, Derek recognises the look.

“Bullies?” 

“Oh, yeah, you could say that. And before you go picturing the Karate Kid being chased down by a gang of skeletons, it’s not really like that. It’s just this one dude who has serious bigotry issues. A born asshole, you know? You’ll find one in every high school in America.” He lifts a single shoulder in a deliberately careless shrug. 

“A bigot?” Derek’s not entirely sure why he’s engaging, but the kid intrigues him as much as a he feels a sudden and overwhelming need to shake him by the scruff of his neck like a particularly frustrating pup.

“Yep, a bona fide bigot. This whole rearrange face thing isn’t because I was shaken down for my lunch money, dude, it’s more to do with the fact that he’s taken exception to my _life choices_.” Stiles makes sarcastic air-quotes.

“Life choices?” Derek raises a telling eyebrow, voice drawing the words out slow.

Stiles blushes and the big amber eyes flick down and away. “I like to think it’s more... biological than chosen.” There’s a silence which stretches for a long moment, awkward. Finally he throws up his arms in exasperation. “Jesus! I putt from the rough, bat for the other side... I’m a fucking _awesome_ friend of Dorothy!”

“Who’s Dorothy?” Derek asks with his straightest of straight faces. The expression he gets in return is incredulous.

“Are you shitting me right now? I don’t know you well enough, or at all actually, to tell whether this is you joking _very badly_ or if the world of werewolves is so isolated and repressed that human pop culture completely escapes you. Enlighten me please.”

“I’ve always prefered the classic euphemism of gay, myself,” Derek replies mildly.

“What - wait, hold on. You mean to call other people or... yourself?” Stiles face is suddenly very open and curious, eyes blinking at Derek like he’s trying to see the situation clearer.

“Either. Both.” 

“Wow, okay. Noted.” Stiles’ throat bobs as he swallows hard.So fired up a moment ago, he’s gone back to his default of extreme awkwardness. “But yeah, anyway, this particular dickhead enjoys the nastier names and emphasising them with his fists. Seems to think I’m all kinds of wrong.” 

Stiles laughs humorously, face suddenly sour.

“There’s nothing wrong with being gay.” Derek says darkly, taking a few steps further into the room as if to underscore the truth of his words.

The sour looks abates long enough for Stiles to roll his eyes (and then wince). “No shit. Thanks for that, but I have seen the ‘It Gets Better Campaign’ online. I’m all good. I have Scott and my dad and I’m not the only openly gay guy at school... though the only one stupid enough to let himself get cornered by Landon Janner. Besides, nobody would fuck with Danny. You fuck with Danny and it’s like you fuck with every popular and influential teenager in the school. You really wouldn’t want Jackson Whittemore or Lydia Martin hating on you. Those two are like a perfect storm, dude.”

It’s a lot of words again, but Derek can hear the offbeat of this kid’s heart, the way everything he says is true but not quite _right_. Derek takes a few steps closer and suddenly he’s looming over Stiles. He hears the catch of breath. The old-new familiar-foreign smell of Stiles gets stronger, spicer the closer he is and Derek help the next words that spill out of his mouth.

“You still pretend to be a ninja?”

Stiles laughs, loud and surprised. His cheeks flush, deepening the ugly bruise on the left side of his face. A hand comes up to rub self consciously at the back of his neck.

“Oh man, you remember that huh? I thought I was pretty hot shit back then.”

“And you don’t anymore?”

Stiles’ eyes dart to Derek’s, startled and wide like Derek had noticed something unexpected. His mouth hangs open obscenely, completely unconscious of what it looks like.There’s a hint of disbelief and arousal in that face, in the sudden tang Derek can taste in the air. He wants to lap up more, can tell it’s there for the taking, but doesn’t move.

Derek sees the moment Stiles slams the barrier down between them. It’s a defence mechanism. Derek knows this instinctively even if, unlike Laura or himself, Stiles doesn’t display this through a blank look. Nor does he appear ready to run off for two weeks. No, this kid _smiles._ It’s obnoxiously big and wide and probably pulling painfully at his bruised face. It’s completely fake. He laughs loudly, the sound jarring and Derek fights a flinch.

“Of course I’m hot shit,” Stiles jokes. “Have you not seen this face I’m carrying around? Everyone wants to get a piece of this.” Another nervous laugh. Derek doesn’t say anything and Stiles tenses, muscles locking. The smile has turned sarcastic, self-deprecating. Derek doesn’t like it but doesn’t know what to do about it. 

Why the fuck does he want to do _anything_ about it?

“You,” Derek says with emphasis, “talk too much.” 

“Whatever, dude,” Stiles mutters. "Not like you're the first to say so."

Derek’s not sure what he’s doing but he grabs a hold of Stiles’ dress shirt in his fist and hauls him forward and out through the family room doorway. This kid intrigues him and it’s been awhile since he’s felt like that about anyone or anything. He’s not keen on over thinking this, just goes with his gut.

“Whoa there grabby, what’s with the manhandling?” Stiles stumbles after him, helpless to disentangle himself from Derek’s hold. Derek grunts, fisting even tighter to the cheap dress shirt. He pushes Stiles up the stairs and drags him into the guest bathroom that he and Laura have been using. Stiles’ eyes are wide and his mouth, damn his mouth, is hanging open again shocked as Derek locks the bathroom door.

“What’s going on here?” His heart is doing crazy things in his chest. 

Derek eyes him for a moment, before unbuttoning his vest. He drops it to the floor and goes for the buttons on his shirt. Stiles’ Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Mutters a shit under his breath when the shirt follows the vest to the floor, completely astounded at the turn of events. Derek knows what he looks like and appreciates the way Stiles’ eyes can’t look away from his chest, his shoulders, his hands as they begin to unbuckle his belt and slides down his pants. Derek isn’t hard, not yet, but Stiles still blushes at the sight of Derek in boxer-briefs. He moans a little.

“Seriously, what is this?”

“You can touch,” Derek tells him. “Wherever you want.”

Stiles doesn’t move. He’s flushed and excited but he’s thinking too much. Derek growls. “You’ve never touched anyone before, had nobody touch you, so now’s your chance.” He doesn’t like spelling it out.

“Is this... is this a pity fuck? Or, no, not a _fuck_ so much as a pity offer to let me use your body as gay-research? Oh my god, it is isn’t it? Are you insane?”

“What does it matter what it is? You want to touch me? Learn what turns a guy on?”

“So what, this is you feeling magnanimous towards a poor, little bullied gay boy?”

“It’s not like I don’t like sex. I already said you could touch me, I meant it.” 

This is different than any one night stand Derek’s ever had, there’s usually no talking and more aggression, both knowing what they want without negotiation. They devour Derek and he pushes them, hard, and in the morning he slips out the door and never sees them again. No names, just two bodies finding release. Derek doesn’t quite know what to do with a teenage boy like Stiles, one that’s never had sex let alone anonymous sex. He hadn’t exactly been thinking straight when he brought the kid up here. He just... he liked the idea of giving Stiles something, something pleasurable to experience and, hopefully, pleasurable to remember. Maybe it was the smell of the bruises... So hauntingly familiar.

Stiles blows out a breath and suddenly Derek knows he’s won, that Stiles is turned on by the sight of him. He won't resist the temptation being offered.

His fingers are clumsy and warm as they flutter against Derek’s stomach. “You’re going to have to show me... I mean, at least tell me if I’m doing anything wrong because, I don’t want this to be bad for you, after you have so generously given up your body for science like this. So kind.” 

The fingers trail softly through the hair leading from Derek’s navel into his boxers. It’s tentative, but more like he’s genuinely scared of hurting Derek rather than from some personal uncertainty. People just don’t _touch_ Derek like that. 

“Shut up,” Derek whispers aggressively. “You won’t hurt me, Scott told you I’m a werewolf, right? I can’t be hurt. Take off my boxers.”

“He mentioned the bossy part, too,” Stiles mutters. “And healing quickly doesn’t mean you can’t get hurt, that you don’t feel pain.” 

Stiles’ words are alarmingly insightful. Dere’s jaw clenches. Stiles isn’t paying attention to what his words are doing to Derek though, he only takes a breath before hooking fingers into the waistband and tugging. Derek steps out of his boxers without embarrassment as Stiles’ eyes follow the slight swing of his dick. It’s still not hard, nestled flaccid in his bush.

“You’re not hard,” Stiles says like a question.

“Make me.”

Stiles laughs at that, surprised and pleased. “A problem to solve, I like those. Best homework I’ve ever had.” After only a brief hesitation he places one of his hands, surprisingly large, around Derek’s cock. He makes a loose ring with his fingers and slides gently down and back a few times, like he’s getting used to holding Derek, mapping him. It _is_ a little like a science experiment, not that it isn’t sexy, Stiles has wonderful hands. But he frowns after a second and suddenly he’s moving away.

“I don’t have lube on me. Must be in my other pants,” he says sarcastically, turning towards the shower stall and pulling open the door. “Shower gel always seems to work, though, when I’m rubbing one off in the shower.” He reemerges, waggling a plastic bottle of blue soft-scrub soap in his hand, a giant smile on his face. 

“Touch me with that and I will eat your face,” Derek deadpans. The smile falters.

“I’m guessing that’s not a sexy kind of eating...”

“We’re not in a shower right now,” Derek huffs, snatching the shower gel and throwing it in the sink. “You use that as lube and I’ll be pissing needles for a week.”

Stiles’ eyes go huge. “Oh shit, oops. I, sorry. No shower gel, got it. And see? I was right, the thought of pain totally doesn’t turn you on. There must be some body cream in here somewhere... ah ha!” Stiles pulls out a small tub of vaseline from a cupboard under the sink. “Eat your heart out, McGyver. You ain’t got nothing on Stiles Stilinski.”

Stiles dips three fingers into the vaseline and scoops out a large wad of the stuff, probably more than is needed. He takes a moment to smear it across both palms and through his fingers before approaching Derek. He looks determined. Once again his hands are gentle, too gentle and Derek urges him to tighten his grip. Stiles does so immediately. He’s got his head tilted at an angle that screams of curiosity and fascination. 

“This is such a strange angle,” he murmurs, like he’s taking mental notes. “It’s all backwards and clearly it’s not working, is it? You’re still not hard, are you sure...?”

Derek doesn’t say anything but takes it upon himself to manhandle Stiles again. He makes it so that Stiles is standing directly against his back, arms curled around his waist and within easy reach of Derek’s dick. He makes eye contact with Stiles in the large mirror over the vanity. Stiles’ face rests carefully in the curve of his shoulder and neck, cheek to cheek. The position is more intimate than Derek had expected, but he likes the sight of Stiles’ heavy eyes in the reflection of the mirror, and the hands resting against his abdomen, dipping low and ready to keep touching.

“Like this,” Derek whispers. “A familiar angle helps.”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes against Derek’s jaw. And he’s touching Derek again, this time with more purpose, like he’s suddenly on familiar territory. He’s going a little too fast for Derek so early in the hand-job, but Derek can give the kid a break. First time doing this for somebody else - Stiles is a little excited.There’s something really satisfying about totally frying someone’s circuits so quickly. This whole experience is for Stiles, not Derek. While not entirely selfless, either, as Stiles really is alluring in a strange, coltish way. He practically vibrates with unspent energy.

Stiles shifts behind him, fitting them even closer together, enough that Derek can feel how excited Stiles really is. His erection a noticeable hardness pressing up against Derek’s backside. Derek likes the feel of Stiles occasionally rutting against his bare skin in those dressy wedding pants.

Derek is half-hard now. He grunts and slips his hand over Stiles’, guiding him more purposefully, showing him how he likes his foreskin played with. He moves Stiles’ free hand to his balls, telling him in a clipped voice to roll and squeeze, make it a rhythm with the strokes to his cock. Stiles swallows audibly. The tip of Stiles’ nose touches Derek’s back softly, almost affectionate, right where his tattoo is.

“I love this,” Stiles says, voice unsteady but clear. His lips whisper across Derek’s skin, too shy to be a kiss. Derek knows he means the tattoo, but it feels like there’s more to it than mere appreciation for his ink. It hits Derek suddenly that he doesn’t do this, he doesn’t _let_ people get behind him, sit in his blind spot, and so rarely do any of his sexual partners ever really get a good look at the tattoo. Derek shivers.

“Are you close?” Stiles asks, interpreting the involuntary movement not entirely wrongly. Derek grunts.

“Yeah,” he says. With a free hand he reaches back and tilts Stiles’ chin up so they catch eyes in the mirror. Stiles’ pupils are blown wide and dark, lips parted in a silent pant. He looks a little wild, a little dazed.

“Several options,” Derek grits out, trying not to blow his load just from the sight of Stiles so wrecked. He’s got better control than this, he knows he does. Derek hasn’t let sex become uncontrollable since... yeah. He’s not going to think about that right now, not with Stiles’ enquiring eyebrows, watching him in the vanity. 

“Option one, you can keep jacking my dick until I come, which will be soon, and watch me in the mirror or however you like. Option two, we can get you out of your own damn clothes and I can teach you, through example, how to blow a guy and make it good. Option three, tell me what you want and I’ll do it. Anything.”

“Jesus,” Stiles groans, face mashing into Derek’s left shoulder for a moment like he’s trying to catch his breath. “Multiple choice? Really? Isn’t there, like, an option for _all the above_? I’d like to go with that one.”

“We could do all of them.” Derek’s not sure where that little slice of truth came from, he’d not intended to say it, he’d meant to simply demand Stiles’ choice. He swallows and knows his mouth is turning down in a glower. “But we don’t have that kind of time.”

“No,” Stiles agrees. “We don’t. So, while I like option number two very much, I kind of want... I mean, shit, I can’t believe I’m turning down a _blowjob_ , but I’ve never been with anyone and never thought in my wildest crazy wet-dreams that I’d have someone like you offering me anything, let alone fucking options. And my imagination has shorted out so number three is totally beyond me right now, so what I’m trying to say is, if option one is still on the table...”

“You want to see me come.” Derek guesses, feeling his stomach clench. “Up close so that you can watch it, really study my dick? See it for real, not on a computer screen?” 

Stiles whines a high, needy sound, hips stuttering forward and rubbing against Derek’s bare ass.

“You said,” he pants, “that you would teach me, let really study a guy up close. I'm awesome at research, you see. Can't pass up this opportunity. I once did a paper on the male circumcision but your dick is uncut.”

God. _This kid_.

Derek shifts around in Stiles’ slackened hold so that they’re facing each other. Stiles’ pale skin is flushed, almost feverish. He’s damn gorgeous. Derek moves them again so that Stiles is sitting perched on the vanity counter, back pressed against the mirror.

“How… how’re we gonna…” Stiles swallows, eyes tracking Derek’s heavy, bobbing dick, like a cat ready to pounce. Derek doesn’t say anything, figures actions are louder than words or however the saying goes. He hoists himself up so that his knees are either side of Stiles’ hips, hands bracing against the mirror and bracketing Stiles between. It’ll leave palm prints on the glass but Derek doesn’t give a shit. The marble of the vanity is cold and hard on Derek's knees. This position has him not quite sitting in Stiles’ lap, more hovering over so that his dick is jutting forward just in front of Stiles’ face. Stiles’ eyes cross.

“Study,” Derek instructs. He can practically hear Stiles rolling his eyes, but the kid does as he’s told, more or less.

“How long are you?” Stiles asks almost conversationally as he jacks Derek slowly with his right hand, touching without much intent. Not yet. Derek snorts and doesn’t answer. Stiles clicks his tongue in annoyance. “Every dude measures his junk, Derek. Don’t even lie. Mine’s about average. Just over five inches when erect.” He sounds like a biology textbook.

“Christ,” Derek grumbles, trying not to make eye contact with himself in the mirror. “I’m about six inches, little more maybe.” Derek takes hold of Stiles’ wrist, stopping the strange, teasing non-strokes. He repositions the fingers so only the tips are working against him, rubbing at the vein and the underside of the glans. He stifles a groan.

"This is the hottest thing I have ever seen in my entire life," Stiles proclaims. "Including that time I saw Lydia Martin's left beast." 

Derek growls a little, thrusting his hips forward into the ring of Stiles' fingers more aggressively than he'd been aiming for. The tip of his dick brushes against the cotton of Stiles' dress shirt, leaving a damp stain of pre-come. Stiles' eye practically bugg out of his face. It's not hard (hah!) to notice the bulge in Stiles' lap, it's really straining against his tight dress pants. Stiles lifts his hips a little from the counter top, like he can't help wanting to get closer to Derek, seeking friction and release. 

It looks like Stiles wants to say something but the words, whatever they are, never come out fully formed, they're just little exhalations of hot breath against Derek's bare chest. _This_ language Derek knows, this wordless, but far from silent, conversation between two compatible bodies. The language of pure sexual release and being so turned on that you think your skin is fucking singing, buzzing from your toes up, as you start that climb to orgasm. This the best and worse language Derek has ever learned, aggressive and instinctual. The wolf in him shivers in anticipation, growling and beastly.

Stiles whimpers as he keeps his fingers in a perfect circle for Derek to fuck into, harder and quicker with every pound forward. Words do filter through from him eventually, escaping those plush, bitten lips like prisoners on the run. Its something stupid and practical about getting his shirt off before Derek jizzes all over it. He mutters something about evidence and a _walk of shame_. Derek figures he can give the kid this, but doesn't allow Stiles to disengage from his dick. So it's up to Derek to take his hands from the mirror and unbutton Stiles' damn shirt. 

It takes for-fucking-ever; so many little buttons and Derek's a little ashamed to notice his hands aren't all that steady. He would just rip it off, it'd be so easy with his strength, but that would defeat the point of doing this in the first place, keeping the damn thing from becoming sex collateral.

Stiles' chest is surprisingly not scrawny once Derek has revealed it. Thin, sure, but lightly toned and hairless, unless you count the dark happy-trail which starts below his navel. Lacrosse obviously agrees with him. Derek likes the sight, likes that his come is going to mark this chest like it's his to own. He's kinda glad he took that shirt off now.

Derek thrusts again into Stiles' hand, his vigour and need redoubled. Stiles had tried to shrug his shirt off completely, but only gets to where it falls over his shoulders a little before _thunking_ his head back against the glass, mouth dropped open in a soundless cry of lust. He looks, Jesus, debauched and a little crazy around the eyes. Derek doesn't look up into the mirror to investigate his own expression. He's pretty sure he knows what he'd see and he doesn't want to be that vulnerable, particularly with himself.

"Close," Stiles mutters, eyelids heavy and voice wrecked.

"Yeah," Derek agrees, because he is. He's so close, its not taking much, just the sight of his own dick, angry and red and straining, slipping in and out of Stiles' fist. Its just a handjob, Derek has had plenty of those over the years, but there's something about Stiles' fucking hands, his pale skin touching Derek, that it strikes him as being completely different. This wasn't really what Derek had in mind when he brought the kid up here. He'd expected it to be quick, sure, but mostly awkward in the worst way. He was gonna put up with it because Stiles was young and new and strangely alluring, but mostly because it'd been awhile since he'd had the chance get off and the wedding was stressing him the fuck out. Having his dick stroked or sucked or whatever was the best de-stresser Derek had ever come across.

But here he was, totally losing his shit at this kid's hands on him, not even really participating actively, but panting as Derek fucks forward again and again. He seems just as intent, just as turned on and fascinated by the sight of Derek's flushed and swollen cock-head appearing and disappearing in to view. The slit of Derek's cock is messy with dripping pre-come. Stiles licks his lips quickly, swallowing, before brushing a thumb across the slit to wipe away the tacky moisture.

That's it. That's all it takes for Derek to fall over the edge into orgasm. He can feel it all the way in his toes, a strange but oddly familiar tingling buzz. He can't even keep his wolf in check as he growls and his claws make horrible scratching sounds on the glass of the vanity. His come spirits out all across Stiles' upper chest, even as he keeps moving in Stiles' hand, hips thrusting erratically. Stiles is swearing now, a never-ending litany, high and completely wrecked. Derek knows the feeling.

When his dick is finally drained, literally nothing left to give, Derek slumps forward trapping Stiles against the glass. His over sensitive cock rubs uncomfortably against smooth, sweaty skin and sticky come. They're both breathing hard and Derek is ready to just pass out on the bathroom countertop, he almost does but for Stiles groaning, in a non-sex-induced way, and finally finds some strength to lean back and give the kid some air.

Stiles is blushing and not looking directly at Derek. It takes him a moment to realise what's up and can't help the smirk when he does. There is a very noticeable dark stain at the crotch of his pants, no need to finish Stiles off as Derek had been intending. He huffs.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Sourwolf," Stiles grouces, eyes rolling in what Derek already recognises as his _modus operandi_. “It was really hot, okay? _You're_ really hot. I mean holy shit, when you came? All over me?" Stiles groans. "I could probably get it up again in ten, just so you know." Stiles wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, but tiredly. His eyes droop shut, completely negating his attempt at sexy.

Derek clicks his tongue in a way Laura's always said makes him sound like a disapproving grandma and swings himself down from the counter. His knees are a little red and he has to steady himself with a hand to the vanity for the briefest of moments, but otherwise isn't the worst for wear. Stiles, the fucker, is totally sacked out. Derek takes the opportunity to just look without being observed in turn. He watches the steady pulse at Stiles' neck, the sweep of his lashes on his cheeks, the freckles, the moles, Derek's come painted all across that toned chest. The stain and the slowly lessening bulge. 

It hits him that he wants to do this again. Obviously sex, but specifically with Stiles. Which is fucking strange and has Derek going cold, cleaning himself with a damp washcloth and throwing his clothes back on in a major hurry. 

He's planning on leaving, like he always does, without a backwards glance, uncaring of what his one night stand will do after. They're usually grown-ass men that can clean and dress their damn selves, so why sweat it? But Stiles is young. He's been bullied, treated like he doesn't matter, like he's something ugly and shameful. Not that the other guys Derek's slept with haven't likely gone through similar hurt and discrimination, but Derek didn't know that for sure and what he doesn't know he can't waste time caring about. That's why anonymous fucks are better. For his sanity. 

But. 

He glances for a long moment at the bruise around Stiles' eye. It still smells new and ugly.

Derek can't bring himself to leave the kid to wake up with his shirt half off, cold jizz crusted all over his chest and what will probably be a wicked neck cramp from napping at that angle. He sighs a little and shakes his head. He's not sure what he's doing, but grabs the discarded washcloth he'd used on himself and gets to work. 

While Derek's not gentle, he tries to be as quick and economical as possible. Cleans Stiles down and buttons his dress shirt, the numerous small buttons no less irritating to him now than they were before. Derek looks at the stain at Stiles’ crotch, but knows when to pick his battles and leaves it. Nothing he can do about that little disaster short of turning back time. 

During the cleanup, Stiles wakes just long enough to mutter something about starting on round two, before he faceplants with Derek’s shoulder and is dead to world again. Ridiculous. 

He's halfway down the stairs, Stiles limp in his arms, when he realises he probably could have just dumped the kid in Scott's room. But he's almost to the living room anyway, so he continues down, careful to listen for intruding wedding guests. There's clearly two people in the kitchen making out, Derek can smell the sharp arousal and it makes him want to sneeze, but everyone else is outside in the sunshine. 

He carefully positions Stiles so that his crotch is facing the back of the sofa and hidden from general passers by. It'll still be fucking awkward when he has to leave with his dad, but oh well. It's not like wet dreams aren't a thing. Derek watches Stiles as he curls a hand under a sofa cushion, face snuggling deep into the plush fabric. 

Derek stands for a time in the hallway unsure what to do next, in a kind of limbo. He doesn’t want to go back outside and sit down to cold chicken and sappy love ballads, and he really doesn’t want to be judged by Laura for doing what he did. She’d just wrinkle her nose like she smelled something putrid and give him that look of hers. He doesn’t appreciate those looks because, honestly, she doesn’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to bad taste in sexual partners. Stiles is young, sure, but he’d been willing and keen, almost sweet. Derek refuses to be made to feel bad for what he did, but knows Laura has a habit of getting past all his defenses; the perks of being both his older sister and his Alpha. So going back outside is a resounding no.

Instead he heads up stairs again and ends up lying on his made bed, staring at the ceiling. The sunlight is catching the back of the house, not the front, so his room is cool and dark. The window is open a little, a light breeze fluttering the sheer curtains. The evening feels lazy and Derek’s eyes drift shut. He can hear the love songs anyway, but he’s long realised he can’t win them all.

Derek dozes to the harmonies of a surprisingly melancholic tune.

_Oh your hands can heal_  
 _Your hands can bruise_  
 _I don't have a choice_  
 _But I'd still choose you_

 

Derek startles awake long after the party has ended. His internal clock tells him it’s about eleven thirty at night. The darkness is total, the moon a crescent sliver behind a cloud. Laura is sitting on the bed beside him, legs drawn up under her yellow dress. She looks small, curled like that. Derek can see the glow of her red eyes watching him.

“Did you really need to do that, baby brother?” she asks, voice quiet. She’s not angry, not exactly, mostly just curious and tired.

“Stiles,” Derek guesses. Laura hums in agreement.

“Scott got pretty upset but I think Stiles calmed him down. Said you hadn’t pressured him or done anything he didn’t want you to do.”

“You talked to him?”

“Some. I didn’t scare him or threaten any vital part of his anatomy, Derek, so stop giving me that look. I just _talked_ to him. He’s funny, very sarcastic. Blushed a lot when he realised Scott and I could smell what he’d been up to, though the stain was evidence enough. Scott lent him a pair of pants, so the sheriff won't be pounding on our door for deflowering his son. Illegally. Stiles didn’t seem ashamed at all, in fact he mostly looked smug. He’s a good kid, Derek.”

“Sullying him with my anti-goodness, right?”

“That’s not what I was saying, dickhead. I hate when you talk like that. You’ve got so much goodness in you, _so much_. She could never take that away, you hear me? Derek?”

“I hear you.”

“Too fucking bad you never believe me.” Laura pauses and shakes her head in frustration. “She doesn’t get all of you, Derek. I won’t let her.”

“Laura,” Derek doesn’t know what to say. He’s not seen Laura get this worked up about Kate in years. He reaches out and slips a hand around Laura’s bony ankle, trying to centre her. She swears again, twice, before tipping her head back and cracking her neck.

“I just... I don’t understand why you went after Stiles. All your hook-ups are anonymous. But this? This was a hundred miles from anonymous, Derek. We know this kid and he knows exactly who and what we are.”

“It was just sex, Laura. Why are you making this an issue?”

Laura sighs so quietly, even Derek’s werewolf hearing almost misses it, and unfolds her legs across the bed. After a moment of silence she crawls up to where Derek is laying and stretches out over him, resting her weight on him, her chin propped on his chest. Her red eyes look directly into his.

“We’re good at hiding, you and I,” she says at last. “But let’s not. Not from each other.”

Derek blinks up at the ceiling several times, not sure what to say in the face of that. So he stays quiet and Laura doesn’t push him. She moves so the side of her face is pressed to his chest, like she’s listening carefully to his breathing, to his heartbeat, to the sounds of his life. She’s never been this candid, never initiated a standing order to share. Derek’s great at being tight-lipped but Laura’s even better. 

“Okay,” he says, but he has a caveat. "This goes both ways, Laura, it has to."

Laura's quiet for so long that Derek wonders if she, improbably, fell asleep right on top of him. But her breathing is all wrong for sleep. Derek runs his fingers through her silky hair, twisting an end around his index finger.

"Deal?" he pushes when he thinks enough time has elapsed for Laura to gather her thoughts. His big sister takes a long breath.

"Yeah," she murmurs into his chest. "God Dee, I'm going to be so fucking bad at this."

"I know. You stuck." Derek grins when she hauls off and slugs him. At least she's smiling too and doesn't look quite so jittery now.

" _We're_ going to be so fucking bad at this," she corrects, settling back down.

Derk can only agree again. 

They doze for a while. At one point in the night Derek wakes and has to move his sister to go take a leak. When he gets back Laura shuffles into his side, nose burrowing into his neck. Then, sometime between two in the morning and three, they talk.

Laura asks him about his anonymous hook-ups, about Stiles and how this seemingly random kid breaks an ingrained eight year-long pattern. Its mostly her doing the talking at first, just listing all the things she's noticed over the years that she worried about and never thought added up. It's startling how observant she's been all this time. Derek had always thought he was the one watching out for her as she tried to fuck herself back to happiness. He never realised it had been a two-way mirror. 

He tries to answer her questions as best he can, but they're not perfect and filled with enough holes to make a sieve jealous. It’s a start though. 

"So you felt sorry for him?" Laura says like she doesn't quite get it.

"No. Yes? I don't know. I just saw him and... wanted him." Derek can't get more fucking honest than that. He can't really explain it to himself either, let alone Laura. She nods like maybe she gets it now and that's good enough for Derek. 

Laura doesn't answer all of Derek's questions when it’s his turn, but she tries. It kills him to listen to even the fraction she offers. He shifts a little to hold her in his arms. Physically she doesn't need his protection, her alpha genes take care of that, but her emotions and sense of self worth are as fragile as the bones of a baby bird. They really are a pair. The things she's let those assholes do to her... she never seemed to get that it was abuse, not when she could heal from the injuries in a blink. It wasn't like they were really doing her lasting harm. One 'boyfriend' put a stop to that thinking when he strangled her for so long and so hard that she'd passed out and almost didn't wake again. 

That had been those terrible two weeks she'd gone missing. It hadn’t been that she was keeping away from Derek, from his questions, like he’d always assumed. The bruises left by that particular abusive asshole wouldn’t heal, not like normal, and she hadn’t wanted Derek to see them, see her weakness. She doesn’t say this, not directly, but Derek knows how to read between Laura’s lines. She was ashamed and hurt and he hadn’t been there to help her pick up the pieces. Not like she’d been there for Derek after Kate.

"I'll break his fucking neck," Derek vows with a snarl. 

"I already broke his kneecaps,” Laura says dryly, “so I think we're even."

Laura turns to look at Derek, the skin between her eyes crinkling in a concentrated frown.

"Even after all this time away, Beacon Hills still feels like home."

"Yeah," Derek agrees because it does. "But its not, is it? We can't come back."

Laura suddenly sits upright and Derek can practically smell the determination in the air. It's sharp and exhilarating, the same bright acidicness as limes and grapefruit. It's been awhile since Laura has smelt like this. She jumps out of bed and flings the rumpled yellow bridesmaid dress up and off and across the room, like she can't quite believe she went along with wearing it for so long and needs it as far away from her skin as possible. She turns to Derek in just her plain white bra and underpants, hands on naked hips. Derek loves this Laura.

"I fucking refuse to do this anymore."

"Yellow not your colour?" Derek can't help but tease. He gets a particularly vile string of curses for the effort.

"I'm the Alpha," she says, the tone of voice resonating with something visceral and deep within Derek. "I refuse to be cowed by memories. There are so many bad ones and we keep running and hiding from them, but Beacon Hills is more than the bad, it is everything good, Derek. This place is in my bones, my heart, in every part of me. It is literally killing me to be away. I think that's why I've not been healing as quickly. I am lesser when I'm not here. Weak. I don't do weak. I’m a Hale for fuck’s sake."

Laura snatches up one of Derek's grey Henleys and drags it over her head. It’s way too big for her, except perhaps in the bust, but she clearly doesn't care. She’s hyped up and Derek can almost hear her buzzing, electrifying the air with her energy. Laura finds a rubber band from somewhere and gathers up her long hair into a messy bun that she’ll probably regret later when Derek has to cut the band to stop her from ripping all her hair out. 

She turns to him with a cocked eyebrow and tells him to get dressed. Derek rolls his eyes but does as he’s told without dragging his feet. The red digital numbers of the alarm clock read 04:03 but neither of them are tired anymore. His heartbeat picks up speed, adrenaline beginning to pump. Laura grins in a dangerous, feral way before sliding open the window and swinging out onto the porch roof. 

He doesn't ask where they’re going; Derek knows when to trust his Alpha implicitly. 

She leads them across the dark lawn and deep into the woods. It smells so familiar that Derek has to take a moment to let it all soak in. It’s striking how different Northern California smells compared to New York. The height of the trees, the rustle, the colour - it’s completely immersive and exactly like he's walked into all his most vivid memories. It’s home in a way New York, though beautiful, never has been.

When he turns to Laura she’s got her head tilted and her mouth open, half panting, half grinning. Derek’s eyes track the way her body coils, chest expanding as she sucks in a deep breath, ready to spring. And as she leaps forward, strands of dark hair escaping from her rubber band and framing her face in a wild mess, Derek thinks she’s the most stunning thing he’s ever seen. 

They run for a long time. It feels good. He’s unfurling from a strange half-life hibernation, like it’s the first time he’s used his legs in years, both familiar and new at the same time. Derek concentrates on the feel of pine needles and moss under foot, the slap of chilly night air against his cheeks, rushing into his lungs like he’s drowning in ice water. 

It shocks him awake, making him feel fully alive, more so than he has since the night of the fire, since Kate took nearly everything he cherished with the cruel, easy flick of her wrist as she struck a match against the brick foundation of his home. The sudden acrid scent of burning drifting on the air, the flair illuminating her cold smile, teeth white and straight and mocking. It’s the stuff of his nightmares, just watching the way she laughed in the face of his roar...

Derek doesn’t know until they’re literally in front of the burnt out husk of his childhood home, that this was Laura’s endgame. He doubles over, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath from the hours of running and throwing in his everything.

“We were so happy here,” Laura says, barely sounding winded. She’s moves out of the woods and into the clearing before the house, staring up at the imposing, fragile structure. Derek doesn’t follow her, stuck at the boundaries of the clearing. It’s a safe distance.

He watches as his sister closes her eyes, sniffs the air. Her smile is sad. 

When she opens her eyes again, she slips to her bare knees, like someone cut her strings. She tilts her face towards the house, hands resting in front of her, palms up as if to signify submission, to prove to her snarling, burning memories that she comes unarmed, she comes in peace. To Derek it seems as if she's praying.

He moves out of the comforting cover of the woods and feels the blue coldness of the open sky stretching above him, uncovering him and all his vulnerabilities. He kneels beside Laura, moulding his body into a mirror of hers. Derek doesn't pray, he’s not sure he believes in a god, cruel, benevolent or otherwise, but calms his mind to an almost trance-like state as he matches his breathing to his sister’s.

He meditates in the shadow of his childhood home and he thinks on forgiveness. Over the years he has pictured, in perfect detail, the faces of his lost family; he’s pictured them as if he were sitting across from them, holding their eyes and letting them look their fill at his shame and his sorrow. To every single one he has apologised for his role in their death, over the years he has reunited with them in the dark, in the deepest corner of his disgrace and has begged them - to forgive him, to live. Sometime he imagines them crying, sometimes snarling, disgusted. They’ve never forgiven him. Derek can’t image why they ever should.

But in the quiet of this particular June morning, Derek find himself reaching once more for that dark corner and comes face to face with the entire Hale pack. They form a semicircle in his mind’s eye, standing facing him, waiting expectantly. He worries, wonders if he’s supposed to do something, perform for them. Derek can hear the whine in the back his throat as though from a great distance. His apologies spill over like tears.

It’s the vision of his mother who speaks first - in death as in life. Her voice sounds like an echo, a mirror of the real thing, distant but familiar. She tells him that they all love him, she tells him that they always have and always will. She tells him that he needs to move on, she tells him that he needs to forgive himself.

_Forgive yourself, Derek. Forgive yourself._

"I think," Laura whispers into the dawn of the new day, startling Derek out of his meditation. "I think it's time to be happy here again."

 

Peter looks completely unsurprised when they tell him they're staying. Perhaps he knew what they didn't, that they were Hales and Hales belonged in Beacon Hills, belonged _to_ Beacon Hills. He just smiles, and does so in such a way that he manages to look more sinister than joyful. Melissa's smile is genuine when she hears the news, though. She insists that they stay at the house while she and Peter go to Hawaii for two weeks on their honeymoon, they'll have the place mostly to themselves as Scott will be staying with Stiles and the Sheriff. They can stay as long as they want, until they find a place to call their own. It’s a kind and generous offer and Laura says this.

“We’re family,” Melissa replies, voice and eyes heavy with meaning. Laura hesitates for a fraction of a moment before a small, Derek might call it sweet, smile tugs up the corners of her mouth.

“Family. I like the sound of that.”

 

Derek can hear the sounds of teenagers, their loud indistinct chatter as they pile out of school and into freedom. It’s hard to pick out any one voice or conversation, but Derek concentrates with the ease of his kind. They babble of homework and tests, essays and weekend plans out at the lake. Greetings and farewells, laughter and squeals. The sound bubbles around Derek, like water in a river washes over a rock. He’s immovable in a sea of noise.

Laura asked him to pick up Scott from school today because Scott’s back tire blew on his bike and hasn’t had time to fix it. Scott hadn’t looked enthused but Laura wasn’t taking no for an answer and for as little time as Derek and Laura had been back in Beacon Hills, it didn’t take long for the pack dynamics to settle and hold, as though it had always been that way. Derek knows that Scott looks up to Laura, not just as an authority in the pack, but as an older sister he never had. The relationship between Scott and himself... well, that requires more time. Laura thinks it’s all fucking ridiculous, devising time for them to spend alone and get over themselves. Derek half wonders if she’s the one who punctured Scott’s stupid tire.

He’s leaning against the side of the Camaro, ignoring the long interested gazes of the more brazen teenage girls - and one particularly forward boy with a sweet face and a body a seventeen year old shouldn’t really have - when one of the currents of conversation catches his interest. 

“Saw you looking at me in the locker room, Stilinski,” the unfamiliar voice sneers. 

“Pretty sure I didn’t.” And that’s Stiles, voice bored-sounding but Derek can hear the strain underneath it all, brittle and close to breaking. “There’s nothing much to look at, honestly.”

“Fucking queer. I totally caught you eyeballing my junk.”

“Seriously, no. Besides, why were _you_ looking at me in the locker room, eh Janner? Like what you see?” The final question has a nasty, hard edge to it.

“I’m no homo, Stilinski,” the Janner kid retorts angrily. “And who the fuck would look at you twice, you faggot? You’re worthless. Nobody would touch your dick, even if you begged.”

Derek has heard enough. 

He moves from his slouch and stalks across the parking lot to where a small crowd has gathered. Like sharks smelling blood in the water, they're waiting for the moment when this Janner asshole loses his shit and smacks his anger out on Stiles’ face. It’s disgusting, really. Derek doesn’t miss high school on damn bit.

Janner has warmed to his topic, continuing to spew vile words and suggestions to a stony-faced Stiles. The bully is blocking the drivers side door of a beat-up blue Jeep. A few girls snigger at Janner’s more graphic sexual taunts and Derek can see the flush of shame and embarrassment rise on Stiles's cheeks and neck. 

“Bet you get hard just sitting on that bench watching us all play lacrosse, bet you can't help yourself. Is that why you joined the team, Stilinski? Only way you’ll ever see real dick is to watch the team undress in the locker room, huh? Do you go home and imagine it? You’re pathetic, you -”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupts as casually as he can, holding his snarling wolf in check. 

The two boys glance over at him. Janner looks annoyed at the interruption, blue eyes hard and unfeeling. Stiles looks shocked, mouth hanging open in a way that is uncomfortably familiar. The colour continues to rise on his cheeks and Derek can smell the dismay. He strides right through it to stand close to Stiles, right up in his personal space like he belongs there.

“You ready to leave?” he asks, voice even and quiet, meant for only Stiles. He hooks a possessive finger through one of the belt loops in Stiles’ pants, tucking him that much closer. 

Stiles’s eyes grow wider as he catches on, nodding his head and muttering a few words of agreement. Derek smirks.

“Good.” He says the word almost against Stiles’s lips, teasingly, before bridging the final gap and sucking Stiles's lips into a slow, filthy kiss. Stiles hesitates for the briefest of moments before following Derek’s lead, lips warm and inquisitive. Derek slips a hand up to cup at Stiles’s face, thumb running across a cheekbone. There’s a small huff of breath, like a sigh, from Stiles, quiet and needy and sincere. It occurs to Derek that this is their first kiss. 

Derek moves away first, hand still caressing Stiles’ cheek like he can’t break contact completely. Stiles’ eyes are beautiful, half-lidded with desire, the brown a rich, bright amber. 

“Faggots.” The ugly slur is like a splash of cold water in a warm moment. It’s Janner, voice both disgusted and desperate. Derek takes a moment to realise that the arousal in the air is not just from Stiles. He cuts his eyes to Janner, letting a little electric blue bleed through, catching the bully in his gaze. Predator meet prey. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Derek asks, voice level but dangerous. He can hear the sudden leap in Janner’s heartbeat. He’s scared and pissed off and the acrid stench of his warring hormones makes Derek want to spit.

“A guy who thinks gays are a sin that should be cleaned from society.” It’s both a lie and a truth. 

Derek can feel the unhappy jerk and flutter of Stiles at his side.

In a blur, too fast for the human eye, Derek is slamming Janner against the side of the Jeep. Derek can hear a soft moan from behind him and the mutter of _Jesus, be gentle_. Derek wants to laugh, aware that Stiles is fine really, just worried about his stupid beat-up car like any average teenage boy. He thumps Janner against the door of the car again, just for good measure. The bully’s face is red with rage and embarrassment, kicking out and trying to break free but he’s no match for Derek.

“I don’t like you,” Derek informs him coolly. “I don’t give a shit that you object to my personal preferences, but I do mind when you take out those objections on my boyfriend’s face.”

Derek ignores the small inhale from Stiles at the word boyfriend.

“I mind,” he continues, right up in Janner’s face, “when you slur shit about him which isn’t true. I mind when your words turn into bullying and hate. Stay in your closet as long as you like, that’s your choice, but don’t take it out on those who are brave enough to be out.”

Janner tries to laugh it off, face ugly and scared. “What are you talking about? _I’m not gay._ ” A lie.

Derek laughs mirthlessly. “Keep telling to yourself that, kid, I don't really give a shit, but we both know it isn’t true. I can _smell_ it on you.” 

He drops Janner like he can’t bear to touch him a moment longer. He steps back a few paces, slowly, hands in his jean pockets in a pose he know is full-on cocky.

“Now, fuck off out of the way, will you?” Derek points lazily across the parking lot. He realises they’ve gathered quite a crowd now, lots of fascinated and awed faces stare at him, stare at Janner, stare at Stiles. Janner pushes past all of them, jaw tight as he mutters more curses and bigotry under his breath. Derek ignores it, knows it’s a stupid kid trying to save face. 

“God,” Stiles says from beside him. “Could you really smell that on him? Is there, like, an Eau de Gay?” His eyes are wide as they follow Janner’s humiliated retreat through the crowd. Derek hooks his finger in the pocket of Stiles’s jeans and tugs him close again. His lips press against Stiles’s flushing ear. He smirks.

“I can’t smell gayness, idiot,” he says with a quiet snort. “But I can smell arousal...” Derek lets it hang there, enjoying the blush and the sarcastic eye roll.

“Oh my god!” Derek turns his face to see a slack-jawed Scott standing at the front of the crowd, having pushed himself through. “That was freaking crazy! Derek like threw Landon against your Jeep, bro. And Landon just _took it_. That was... That was really cool of you, man.” The last is directed at Derek, like peace offering.

Scott pushes closer after a moment of locking understanding gazes with Derek, and slaps a hand against Stiles’ back, grinning from ear to ear. His eyes spy the way Derek is holding on to his best friend, and raises an eyebrow. 

“Uh. Panic over. You guys can, like, stop pretending to be... boyfriends,” Scott says to Stiles in an undertone, like he hopes Derek can’t hear him from a foot away. 

Stiles just smile and shrugs, not moving from Derek’s space. Before Scott can protest, a short girl with a haughty face and beautiful waves of strawberry-blonde hair, interrupts them with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Well Stilinski,” she says, eyeing Stiles like it’s the first time she’s ever really bothered to look. It probably is - Derek wouldn’t be surprised. “That was quite a scene. Your boyfriend is angry and hot. I approve.” She smirks some more, eyes flicking meaningfully at a scowling teenager with an athletic physique and fantastic cheekbones. Her boyfriend, Derek would guess.

“Uh, hey Lydia,” Stiles flounders, heart accelerating with the anxiety of navigating the general cesspool of teenage social etiquettes. This chick was clearly the queen bee. Laura would probably quote from _Mean Girls_ right about now. “Thanks? Derek just... he doesn’t like douchebags. Which makes sense, nobody does really. Landon talks a lot of shit and Derek here, Derek doesn’t take shit. From anybody.”

The girl, Lydia, hums in a bored sort of acknowledgment. She’d come to say what she’d wanted to say and clearly has no more use for conversation. She turns with a dramatic flick of her perfect hair to join her grumpy boyfriend, heels a sharp clack-clack against the asphalt. 

“And here I thought this day couldn’t get any weirder. Lydia freaking Martin, holy wow.”

“Should I be jealous?” Derek asks mildly, eyebrow quirked up in question. Stiles lets out a sharp laugh.

“Nope. That boat has well and truly sailed without me. I’m the kind of guy who know when to give up on a no-win scenario.”

“That's total bull, Stiles. When we were seven you said that you were going to marry Lydia. You've literally said the same thing every year since,” Scott says, leaning a playful shoulder into his friend.

“True that, very true. But, uh, I want to keep my options open. Never know what’s around the corner, right? Can’t be slamming all the door on my options.” 

“That so?” Derek asks with a raised eyebrow. He can feel a smile tugging at his mouth.

“You bet. Especially now that I’ve experienced... a bit more of what available to me.”

“Gross. Enough innuendos, seriously guys,” Scott whines, face scandalised. “I’m going over to wait by the Camero. I’ll just be...” he points vaguely away “...there. When you’re done. Or whatever.”

Stiles watches his friend retreat from them with haste. Derek can smell a new scent on the air - it’s subtle, but hard to miss. He frowns at Stiles’ downturned eyes.

“Thanks by the way. For giving Landen Janner, Professional Asshole, a smackdown.”

“He’s a bully. I don’t like bullies.”

“Yeah.” Stiles still won’t look up, the strange scent only getting stronger. “I uh, I hope I didn’t misread... I mean I get that you were just doing your white knight thing today and were probably just horny and bored at the wedding. I don’t expect anything from you. I just... I just wondered if, in the future, you might consider more of the kissing and more of the sex stuff. I’ve had a taste of the forbidden fruit now and boy, don’t get me wrong, it’s great material for my spank bank, but now you’ve kind of ruined me. My own hand really just doesn’t really meet my needs -”

“Stiles-”

“So, yeah, if you’re ever interested in donating your body for more gay research I just want you to know I’m totally up for it. In more ways than one. Probably with more puns than you’d like, but I’m afraid that’s just the way God made me. And, you see, I’ve been thinking - so much, like literally all the time - about your offer to blow me. I literally can’t stop thinking about it, so I’m just going to put that out there, incase you ever feel the inexplicable need to go down on a verbose teenager with zero experience and an abundance of awkwardness. It’s on the table. You ever feel the urge, I’ll be there. With bells on.”

Stiles drags in a nervous breath. He’s probably only going to word vomit more and induce stress headaches for all involved, so Derek preempts him, leaning forward to kiss the words right out of his mouth. Stiles moans a little, body melting and lips parting at Derek’s gentle insistence. He runs his tongue along Stiles’ own, firm and hot. Stiles tastes of peanuts and sugar and desire. 

“Is this a yes?”

“What the fuck do you think?”

“I’m gonna go for yes, kissing is definitely a yes kind of answer.”

As Derek slips a hand up against Stiles’s chest, leaning in for another eagerly met kiss, he can feel the steadfast thrum of Stiles’s heartbeat under his fingers. It’s a good sound, a steady sound, it’s the sound of new beginnings. 

It’s what he imagines happiness sounds like. 

And it’s been such a long time since Derek could ever claim to be happy. Maybe this is what Laura meant that day in the clearing and maybe, just maybe, this is what it can mean to Derek too.

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics quoted from 'Poison and Wine' by The Civil Wars. Title is plucked from the Mary Oliver poem 'Wild Geese':
> 
> You do not have to be good.  
> You do not have to walk on your knees  
> for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.  
> You only have to let the soft animal of your body  
> love what it loves.  
> Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.  
> Meanwhile the world goes on.  
> Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain  
> are moving across the landscapes,  
> over the prairies and the deep trees,  
> the mountains and the rivers.  
> Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,  
> are heading home again.  
> Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,  
> the world offers itself to your imagination,  
> calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-  
> over and over announcing your place  
> In the family of things.


End file.
